Tombs of Endearments (19 page)

I kicked around the warehouse, eavesdropping
on the roadies (who said nothing of interest), the cops (who said nothing useful) and even Crazy Belinda (who had one of the uniformed cops cornered near the door and was telling him how disappointed she was because once the shooter vanished, she missed this chance to join her true love in the arms of death).

I was just about to give up and ask somebody if I could leave when I realized I was standing near Gene Terry’s briefcase.

He wasn’t a suspect, but I was bored.

And who knew what kind of secrets a guy like him carried around?

I used my foot to nudge the briefcase closer. It was one of those big, old-fashioned ones, the kind with two zippered compartments, one on either side of a middle section that just snaps closed, and it wasn’t snapped. That’s practically an invitation to look inside, right?

I bent to take a closer look. Imagine my surprise when I did—and saw a gun.

I thought I was playing it cool, but I guess Quinn must have seen me jump. When I looked around to find him, he was looking my way.

He excused himself from Gene Terry. “Now what?” he asked.

“I know who did it.”

“You do.” It was nice of him to buy into my theory so quickly. Or was that a note of skepticism I heard in his voice? He crossed his arms over his chest. “Want to let me in on the news?”

Gene Terry was watching us. I put a hand over my mouth.

“It was him,” I mumbled.

“It was…” Quinn bent closer. “Who?”

“Him.” I turned my back on Gene, the better to disguise the fact that we were talking about him. “There’s a gun. In his briefcase.”

If Quinn was half the classy guy I imagined him to be, he would have been a little more gracious. This definitely would not have involved calling Gene Terry over.

“What are you doing?” I hissed. But it was already too late.

“Miss Martin says you have a gun,” Quinn informed the agent.

Gene gave me a dirty look. “Miss Martin needs to mind her own business.”

Since the dirty look wasn’t aimed at him, Quinn wasn’t intimidated. “Do you have a gun?”

“You’re damned right.” Terry scooped the briefcase off the floor and opened it so Quinn could see. “It’s a Glock 9 mm, and yes, it’s licensed. We get a lot of crazy fans.”

I was not paranoid. This criticism was aimed at me. Just in case I missed the significance, though, Gene went right on.

“This particular crazy fan…” He was shorter than me, but he moved in close and raised his chin so I didn’t miss his glare. “…better stay clear from now on. No more wild accusations. No more contact with the band. I’m hiring extra security. That ought to take care of any threats. And it better mean I never see you anywhere near Mind at Large again. If I do, I’ll be in court faster than you can say
restraining order
.”

“Aren’t you going to arrest him?” I asked Quinn practically before Gene had walked away.

“For…?”

“He’s got a gun.”

“He does.”

“And somebody was just shooting at us.”

“But not him.”

“And you know this, how?”

“Pepper…” Quinn put both hands on my shoulders and turned me toward where the crime scene techs were hard at work. “See those bullets they’re digging out of the concrete? They came from a rifle,” he said. He patted me on the back before he walked away. “If you’re going to play detective, get your facts right.”

“Get my facts right.” Watching Quinn head into the recording studio to talk to the witnesses there, I grumbled the words. It didn’t help my mood to realize that he was right. I couldn’t have been getting my facts right because if I was, this whole case would be making more sense. More than none, anyway.

A chill raced up my spine, but believe me, it had nothing to do with how I was feeling. Which was hopeless and defeated.

My clothes were soaked. My hair was a mess. I hated to think what kind of shape my makeup was in. The good news was that I’d been to the mall the weekend before and the new outfit I bought was still in the shopping bag that was still in my backseat. I could head back to Garden View, get cleaned up, and get back to work.

My real work.

There were only so many times I could use the excuse of the County Archives to account for my absences.

How many ways could I say I was glad when that
day was over?

I didn’t even try, I was just glad it was. Dirty clothes in the shopping bag and me feeling as if I’d been wrung out and hung up to dry (or more accurately, like I’d been witness to more catfighting than on the women’s mud wrestling circuit, been shot at, been chewed out by a pissed-off talent agent, and been humiliated by a man I would love to love), I drove home in a daze. I parked my car and for a couple of minutes, I just sat there, appreciating the quiet and the being alive.

The downtime gave me a chance to think and thinking…well, it actually improved my mood. Because it didn’t take me long to realize there was an upside, even to a day like that. For one thing, in an effort to forget everything I’d been through (see above), I’d forced myself to keep busy when I got back to Garden View, and I’d actually gotten some honest-to-gosh work done. This was a plus because Ella not only noticed, but announced to everyone within earshot that I was living proof that the work ethic was very much alive. As the dearly departed
don would remind me if he was on this side and not the Other, this was what was known as a bargaining chip. Or at least it would be if Ella remembered her high praise and cut me some slack the next time I disappeared because I was doing something I shouldn’t have been doing on Garden View time.

The best part of it all was that once I’d gotten cleaned up, freshened my makeup, and changed out of my grimy clothes and into skinny black pants, a black cardigan, and a tawny-colored tank top that brought out the auburn highlights in my hair, I looked fabulous.

Good thing, too.

I wouldn’t have wanted to look like hell when I finally hauled myself out of the car, rounded the corner of my apartment building, and nearly ran smack into Joel.

Goodbye, good mood. Hello, annoyance.

I set down the shopping bag. It was heavy because the dirty clothes in it were wet, and I didn’t want to clutch it in two hands and look as if I was trying to disappear behind it. Besides, I figured it wouldn’t hurt for Joel to see the Nordstrom name on the side of the bag. Maybe then he’d remember that nobody knew fashion like Pepper Martin knew fashion. Not even Simone Burnside, girl attorney.

“Pepper!” For a guy who was hanging around outside my door, he looked awfully surprised to see me. “I didn’t think you’d be home this soon.”

“So you were going to, what, camp out here until I showed?”

“That’s not what I meant.” Just like the last time
I saw him, Joel looked like a million bucks in a suit that didn’t come off the rack, a shirt that I bet had his initials embroidered inside the collar, and a tie that was the exact same color as the tank I was wearing.

We matched.

I shuddered, and found comfort in the thought that I looked good on a shoestring. No way Joel could claim the same resourcefulness. He had the Panhorst millions to play with.

Naturally, thinking about Joel’s family made me think about Grandma, and thinking about her made me think about her ring. It didn’t take a detective—to the living or to the dead—to figure out what Joel wanted.

I cut to the chase. “No. I told you—”

“You didn’t sell the ring to a jeweler, Pepper.” Joel was pretty quick on the uptake. Or maybe he was just itching for a fight. “Sure, that’s what you told me the last time we talked, but really, you should know me well enough to give me a little more credit. Your story is a total fabrication. How do I know? You forgot, that diamond is registered, and according to the registry, there’s no record of a transaction.”

“Oh, aren’t you the clever one!” This was a good way of covering and better than the
Damn, you figured it out
that threatened to leave my lips. My smile was as sleek as the move I used to scoop up the shopping bag from the sidewalk. With the backside of one hand, I nudged Joel aside and moved toward the door. “Thanks for stopping,” I said, my voice as breezy as the look I gave him. “Tell Simone I said hello.”

“That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? It’s all about Simone. She’s more successful than you. She’s richer. She’s prettier.”

I couldn’t deny the
richer
or the
more successful
part. But
prettier
was a low blow.

Especially since it wasn’t true.

I’d already walked past Joel, and I looked at him over my shoulder. “I bet she stinks in bed.” I didn’t wait for Joel to confirm or deny. Who was I kidding? He wasn’t about to besmirch Simone’s reputation. Not in front of me. As much as I hated to admit it, this was actually admirable.

But that didn’t mean I had to put up with it. Or with Joel. Not for a moment longer.

I dug into my purse for my keys, and once I found them, I clutched them in one hand and turned long enough to raise my chin and give him a super-size glare. “I’ve been reading up on restraining orders,” I said, even though technically what I’d been doing was being threatened to have one issued against me. “I know enough of the law to know that you can’t bother me anymore.”

“And I know that you can’t refuse me. Not when it comes to the ring. It’s mine, Pepper.” Joel’s eyes shot fire. “I want it back. Right now. And don’t try to bullshit me about—”

“Selling it to a jeweler? You’re right.” I wondered if my smile looked as sheepish as I intended, and I guess maybe it did, because Joel’s chest puffed up. My words were as sure and precise as if he had written them out for me and I was reading the confession. “There is no record of the sale of the diamond to a jeweler because I didn’t sell it to a jeweler.”

I stuck my key in the apartment building door. “I pawned it,” I said, turning the key and pushing the door open. “Got a hot two hundred fifty bucks for it, too.”

“Two-fifty.” Joel’s jaw dropped. His skin was ashen. It was an image I hoped to carry with me for the rest of my life. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

There was a window in it, and just to make sure he didn’t miss my parting shot, I tapped on it.

“Gotcha!” I said, and before he recovered, I raced up the stairs.

My keys were still in my hand and so when I got to my apartment door, I was all set to unlock it. Except I didn’t need to. Unlock it, that is.

My door was already open.

I had been feeling pretty full of myself. After all, I’d had the last word in the last conversation with the last ex-fiancé I hoped to ever have. But one look at the splintered wood of my doorjamb and the way the door hung from one hinge as if it had been kicked, and it was hasta la vista time for my self-confidence. An icy claw of fear gripped my insides. My knees quaked. I really didn’t need to push the door open, I knew what I’d see, but holding on to the doorknob helped keep me from falling to the floor in a heap. Besides—and here I swallowed hard and gave myself a stern talking to—there was an off chance that I was being overly imaginative, paranoid, or both.

Or not.

Just as I suspected, my apartment was trashed.

I looked at the couch that had been turned over and the chair that was lying on its side in the living
room. From where I was standing, I could see into my bedroom, and I realized that all the drawers had been yanked out of my dresser. There were clothes everywhere and magazines ripped and tossed all around. Even my kitchen cupboards had been torn apart. There was a trail of dishes between the kitchen and the bathroom, and silverware mixed in with the scattered pages of the morning’s paper.

In one horrified glance, I took it all in.

And a funny thing happened.

The ice in my veins melted. Then again, maybe that wasn’t so funny because it was replaced by a surge of anger so powerful, I couldn’t have controlled it if I tried.

And I didn’t try.

In far less time than it took me to get upstairs, I was back outside again. I was just in time, too. Joel and his black Audi were about to pull out of a parking place. He was looking away from me, waiting for traffic to clear. I guess that’s why he was at a disadvantage when I jumped in front of his car and pounded on the hood.

Except for Quinn, who pretty much was off the scale, Joel could be as cool as any guy I’d ever met. But not when he was surprised. And boy, was he surprised! His eyes popped open. They were as round as marbles. His mouth dropped. It was not an attractive expression.

He hit the right button, and the driver’s side window glided down. “What the hell—?”

“Don’t you what the hell me, Joel Panhorst.” I marched to the side of the car, and three cheers for me, I must have looked hopped up enough to in
timidate even Joel. The window had been all the way down. He closed it partway and leaned back and farther away, but not until he double-checked to make sure the doors were locked.

“How dare you?” My voice shook. So did my legs. I grasped the car door. “Who the hell do you think you are? How could you?”

Joel was a lot of things, but dumb wasn’t one of them. If he was, I never would have fallen in love with him. That was why I did so not appreciate it when he tried to act confused. “How could I…” As if it would help clarify the situation, he shook his head. “What are you talking about, Pepper?”

I choked on my anger. And my words. My hands were curled into fists, and I forced myself to relax. I flexed my fingers. And fisted them again. “No wonder you looked so surprised to see me,” I said. “You thought you could slink away before I got back.”

“Why would I want to avoid you when I came here to talk to you in the first place?” His mouth pulled into a thin line, and this time when he shook his head, it wasn’t as if he was trying to clear it. It was more like he was feeling sorry for me. “Maybe what people are saying is true. Maybe you are—”

“What?” He didn’t know I could move that fast. I didn’t know I could get my head through a car window that wasn’t open all the way. Eye-to-eye, we glowered at each other. “What are our old friends saying about me, Joel? That I’m a washed-up, down-and-out cemetery tour guide? Or are they just saying I’m crazy?”

He snorted. “They don’t need to say it. It’s obvi
ously true. If you can’t afford professional help—”

“I don’t need professional help. Except maybe from the cops. Maybe when they show up, you can explain to them how you kicked in my door and trashed my apartment looking for that damned ring.”

As if I’d tossed a handful of ice cubes down his back, Joel sat up straight. He shivered. “Are you accusing me? You think I’d do something like that?”

“Oh, come on!” I live in a neighborhood that is traditionally Italian, and I don’t think it’s going out on a limb to say that many Italians are emotional and passionate. No doubt my neighbors, many of them longtime residents, had seen their share of operatic arguments before. That didn’t keep some of them from opening their windows and sticking out their heads. Or others from stopping on the sidewalk across the street so that they didn’t miss a word.

I welcomed the audience. Witnesses are a good thing.

My neck was cramped, so I wasn’t giving ground when I pulled back from the car and stood up straight. Just so Joel knew it, I kept a grip on his door. “Enough games, Joel,” I said. “Asking for the ring is tacky enough. Trying to steal it crosses the line.”

“You’re right. It does.”

Was I delusional? Did I just hear the great Joel Panhorst admit that he was wrong and I was right?

The very thought cheered me right up. Until Joel opened his mouth again.

“That’s why I didn’t do it,” he said, and he eased the gearshift into drive.

It took a moment for the message to sink in. “What do you mean you didn’t do it? Joel, this is important so you’d better not be bullshitting me. Are you telling me—”

“I’m telling you that you’re right, you’d better call the cops. Because I might have thought about it, Pepper, but you know me better than that. Unlike certain of your relatives, I wouldn’t take the chance of breaking the law, hurting my reputation, and destroying my family. I didn’t break into your apartment, and you know what that means, don’t you?” I was so stunned, I’d let go of the door handle, and Joel moved into traffic. When he sped away, his voice wafted back to me.

“If I didn’t do it, that means someone else did.”

The first thing I did when I got back upstairs was call the cops.

The second thing? I looked for the ring, of course.

In a day that had been filled with bad news, this was the one bright spot. The ring was exactly where I left it—in the toe of my slipper.

“Now you’re glad you listened to me, aren’t you?”

I didn’t need to turn around to know Grandma Panhorst had joined me.

“You bet.” I stuffed the ring back into my slipper and turned toward my bed. It was heaped with the clothes that had been ripped out of my closet, but of course that didn’t stop Grandma. She was seated on top of the pile, her legs crossed and one
foot—and the pink, fuzzy slipper on it—swinging. “Thanks for the advice. About the ring in the slipper, I mean. If it wasn’t for you—”

“Any time, kid.” Grandma waved away my thanks with the hand that held a cigarette. “Wouldn’t want somebody to make off with my ring.”

There didn’t seem to be any point in being careful, so I scooped up some of the clothes on the bed and tossed them on the floor on top of the pile of necklaces and earrings that had been emptied out of my jewelry box. “Was it Joel?” I asked Grandma. “He said it wasn’t, but I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”

“That makes two of us.” Grandma finished her cigarette and flicked it away. “But as for this mess…” She brushed her hands together. “Sorry, honey. I can’t help you. I didn’t see a thing.”

“I thought you said you stayed with the ring.”

“I do. I mean, usually. But not when my program is on. Oprah. Don’t you just love her!”

“Then maybe it wasn’t Joel. But maybe it was.” I can’t say why this cheered me. Thinking that Joel had pawed through my clothing was less nauseating—at least a little—than thinking that a stranger had done it. Unfortunately, as much as I would have liked to go on believing that Joel was guilty, I remembered what he’d said right before he pulled away.